She continued to stand very close to him. “I came as a friend,” she said. Her voice was seductively low.

Mason sighed, pushed the book away, and pointed to a chair. “Go over there and sit down. Tell me about it and give me all the facts so I don’t have to ask for a lot of explanations.” She hesitated a moment, then with a little petulant shrug of her shoulders, seated herself, crossed her knees, and smiled at him. “Go ahead,” he told her.

“I’ve discharged my attorney.”

“Paid him off?”

“Does that make any difference?”

“It might. Particularly if he has any papers which belong to you.”

“I’ve reached a complete understanding with him.”

“Very well; what else?”

“I want to talk with you.”

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Mason,” she asked, dropping her seductive manner, “that I hold the whip hand?”

“No,” he said, “it hasn’t.”

“Well, I do.” He made a gesture, as though to reach for his law book and she started a rapid fire of conversation. “Do you know what it’ll mean, if I get on the stand and swear that Peter got a carving knife and tried to kill me; that he said he was walking in his sleep, but that I knew he was lying? Well, I don’t want to do that. I want to help Peter. But, if Peter is going to fight me, I’ll have to fight Peter.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“I just want you to understand I’m looking out for myself.”

“I understand that.”

“And don’t think I can’t do it!”

“I also understand you’re fairly good at that.”

“Well, I want to know where I stand.”

“I’m sure I can’t tell you.”

“Yes, you can. You’re Peter’s lawyer. I know Peter well enough to know that when it comes to standing up to a real knockdownanddragout fight, he won’t do it. He’s too nervous. We can settle this thing. He’ll want to settle. He’s got to settle.”

“What do you want, an income or a cash settlement?”

“Neither. I want to have Peter take me back as his wife. I want to stand by him during this period of adversity. I want him to let me take my place by his side.”

“So, after a few months, you can begin all over again and get a larger settlement and a larger chunk of alimony?” Mason asked.

“That’s unkind, Mr. Mason. You have no right to say that. That isn’t what I want. I want to be Peter’s wife.”

“Knowing,” Mason said acidly, “that he’s in love and wants to marry, you decide that you can throw more monkey wrenches into the machinery by keeping him tied up to you. He’ll eventually pay more to buy his freedom.”

She produced a lace handkerchief, slowly, dramatically. Her eyes blinked rapidly, filled with tears, the corners of her lips quivered, then with a little, inarticulate cry, she raised the handkerchief to her eyes. Her shoulders heaved with sobs.

Mason watched her unemotionally. “How much for a cash settlement?” he asked.

“I don’t want a cccash settlement.”

“How much for a monthly income?”

“I don’t want a mmmonthly income. I wwwant PPPeter. I wwwant to help him. I wwwant to tttestify that he’s not right mentally. I hope he cccan be cccured. But, if he cccan’t, I want to ssstand by him.”

Mason’s face showed indignation. He got to his feet, strode toward the sobbing figure and reached out as though to jerk the handkerchief from her eyes, then as he stood there, his eyes suddenly narrowed in thought. He stood in frowning concentration for a moment, then turned back to the desk and surreptitiously slid his forefinger to the push button which summoned Della Street to his office. A moment later, as his puzzled secretary noiselessly opened the door from the law library, Mason moved his hands about his head in a pantomime, indicating a hat. Then he made gestures about his shoulders, imitating the motions of one holding a coat collar tightly about the throat. Della Street frowned in a perplexed attempt to gather his meaning. Mrs. Kent continued to sob into her handkerchief. Mason walked over to her, patted her shoulder. “There, there, my dear,” he said sympathetically, “I didn’t mean to be harsh with you. Perhaps I’ve misunderstood you. Get your hat and coat and come back.”

She peeked up at him from around the side of her handkerchief. “My hat and coat?” she asked, puzzled.

“Oh, pardon me,” Mason said hastily; “what I meant was that I wanted you to return when you weren’t so emotionally upset.” Della Street noiselessly closed the door to the law library.

“You were mmmean to me,” Doris Kent sniffled into her handkerchief.

“I’m sorry,” Mason said, patting her shoulder; “I’m upset this morning and perhaps I did you an injustice.” She dried her tears, blew her nose, sighed tremulously and put the handkerchief in her purse. Her eyes glinted with the remains of unmistakably genuine tears. “Do you,” he asked casually, “still have keys to Peter Kent’s residence?”

“Of course. I haven’t used them for a year, however. Why did you ask?”

“Nothing in particular. I just wondered.”

“Well, does it make any difference?”

“Not necessarily. What’s your attitude going to be toward Maddox?”

She raised her eyebrows and said, “Maddox?… Maddox?… I don’t believe I know him.”

“Maddox, from Chicago,” he said; “you know, the Maddox Manufacturing Company.”

“Oh, that was something my lawyer discovered about my husband’s property. He said that the Maddox Manufacturing Company had patents that were worth millions and Peter had deliberately concealed the information from me, so he wouldn’t appear to be so wealthy when my divorce action was filed. But that’s all passed now.”

“But don’t you know Maddox personally?” Mason asked.

She looked at him with wide, astonished eyes, and said, “Certainly not.”

“Nor Duncan, his attorney?”

She shook her head, her face the picture of surprise.

“I thought you talked with Maddox over the telephone.”

“Why, whatever gave you that idea?”

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Skip it.”

“No, but I want to know. I really am interested, Mr. Mason, because I feel that someone has been lying about me. Perhaps that’s why Peter feels about me as he does.”

The door from the law library silently opened. Della Street, attired in a fur coat, gloved hands holding a black purse, a closefitting hat tilted rakishly at an angle, raised inquiring eyebrows at Mason. He nodded. She took a dubious step into the room. Mason strode toward her, “Why, Miss Street,” he exclaimed, “Why, my dear Miss Street.” Doris Kent stared frigidly. “Why, how did you get in here?” Mason asked, coming toward her. “I’m busy. I wasn’t to be interrupted; I haven’t forgotten about your appointment… I…”

Della Street came breezily toward him, gave him her gloved hand. “I’m sorry, if I intruded, Mr. Mason,” she said, “but I knew what a stickler you were for accuracy in appointments. Some girl in the outer office told me to go in the law library and wait because you were busy. Since I had a most definite appointment, and knowing how important my matter was, I simply couldn’t believe her. Therefore, after I’d waited a few minutes, I opened the door. I’m very, very sorry.”

“It just happened,” Mason explained, “that another matter interfered…” He broke off and motioned toward Doris Kent, who got slowly to her feet.

“I’m afraid,” Della Street said, watching Mason’s face, “that I must insist upon my appointment, however, Mr. Mason. I have only a very few minutes. You remember, you told me over the telephone that I wouldn’t have to wait. I know it was wrong for me to break in, but, after all, an appointment is an appointment.”

Mason’s manner was embarrassed. He turned to Doris Kent and said, “I’m very sorry. You’ll remember, I told you I could only give you a few minutes. I’ve had this appointment with Miss Street…”

“It’s quite all right,” Doris Kent said, throwing up her chin. “I’ll come back.”